As I don’t recall, yesterday was Memorial Day and I had to deal with a procession of dead beets here at the hound dog bus terminal on the beach.  It was a grave scenario down by the sea of sorrow as a pile of live wires dug their own holes into the fresh soil then drifted off into Neverland.  God rest their sickly souls.

Can you dig it?

At the end of my rope and ready to retire from life as we know it, I padded down to the dirty pool deck underground for one last swim in the sea of life.  Dead tired, I took a low dive into the murky water and once surfaced, performed my famous “Dead Girl’s Float”.  From high above on the condo-minimum’s top floor, some old spirit caught sight of me, presumably dead as a buoy hung poolside on the Titanic.  She called nine eleven and reached a savior on the tenth ring.  She was attempting to save my life before I was five feet under.  Otherwise, everything seemed terminally okay.

I lived to tell another sick story, this one about my favorite living sun—the kid who graduated with deadly honors and third degree burns in physics and philosophy and home economics.   He is the reason I suddenly come too most mornings, prepared for life and living it.  God bless his saintly soul.  (The lad is also a ghost writer of murder/romance memoirs and is so supernaturally talented it is spooky.)

I digress.  The day of the funeral of a fellow ghost who lives underground in our basement, my sun chooses to head over to the local swimming hole after spending what seems like a lifetime at the local watering hole—“TANKED UP TOMMY’S”—kept alive and running by Dean Martin’s ninth wife, Deana, who died prematurely in her early sixties after nearly giving birth to a still- born infant.

Four sheets to the wind, my lively sun now at the swimming hole, as you might remember him, mimics me by allowing his pumped up arms and dead- weighted legs to fall into a perfect “DEAD MAN’S FLOAT.”  At which point a Hearst driving past spots his corpse and sends sympathy and para phenalia in a futile attempt to save his short life.

God Bless Him.

He blew a casket.

May He nap in peace?


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